Viridian Tears. Rachel Green

      Michelle avoided the trolley with the crushed remains of a potted day lily and shoved a pound coin in the next one. She pushed it through the supermarket doors and stood for a moment inhaling the smell of fresh produce. The ambiance was enhanced by the display of fresh herbs to her left and the heady scent of basil made her think longingly of the Italian Restaurant on Market Street. Prompted to move on by the person behind bumping into her, she trundled down the aisle.

      She was looking for lemons and clear honey. She could feel the edges of a cold hovering in her ears and sinuses, and if she wasn’t careful she’d have full-blown sniffles by eight o’clock.

      It came from standing about in cemeteries in the rain, she supposed. Lurking was a habit she’d grown more accustomed to the older she got. It was surprising what people let slip when talking to their dearly departed. It made for an astounding amount of information she could relay during her sessions with clients, and it was quite true when she told them the information came ‘from beyond the grave’.

      She paused at the boxes of citrus fruit, tempted by the seasonal arrival of easy-peel oranges. She took a net of them. It was citrus, wasn’t it? Citrus was good for colds. She moved to the lemons. Forty pence each or three for a pound. She pulled a paper bag off the hook and took a pounds worth. Just the job to chase away the winter chills. All she needed now was a big jar of honey, some paracetamol and a bottle of whiskey and she’d be all set.

      At the top of the jams, pickles and chutneys aisle, her progress was arrested by a vision. Federico, the waiter from the restaurant, was at the honey section, reading the labels on jars and apparently trying to choose one. This was her chance. She speeded forward, accidentally-on-purpose knocking into his trolley. “Sorry.” She smiled to cover her sudden nervousness. “They’ve got a mind of their own haven’t they, trolleys?” She paused, staring at his perfect olive skin and dazzling eyes. “It’s Federico, isn’t it? From the restaurant? Fancy seeing you in here.”

      “That’s right.” He smiled back at her, his white teeth flashing in the overhead fluorescent lights. “You have the advantage of me.”

      “Chance would be a fine thing.” She laughed and swatted playfully at his arm. “Just kidding. Michelle Havers? I always have the fettuccini with olives?”

      “Ah yes.” His relief was apparent. “Mrs. Havers. How good to see you again.”

      “Miss.” Michelle pretended to look at the honey. “What’s best here?”

      “This one.” Federico tapped a jar marked organic. “Very good honey. Very good taste.”

      “But you’re looking at a different one.”

      “Ah, yes. That one is heather based, and I have allergies to consider.”

      “You’re allergic to heather?”

      “No, no. Not me.” Federico treated her to another smile. “My wife.”

      “I…didn’t know you were married.” Michelle covered her shock with another smile and looked away, wondering if there was anyone else in the shop she could use to help her out of the awkward situation. Finding no one, she was forced to look at Federico again. “Has she got a cold too?”

      “A cold? No.” He laughed. “I make her a honey glaze for prosciutto. Good Italian food, no?”

      “I suppose so.” Michelle ignored his recommendation and put her usual brand in her trolley. “Well, I must go. Plenty to do, you know?”

      “Yes. Always.” Federico nodded once and moved off, heading toward the deli counter. Michelle stared after him, biting her lip as he moved up the aisle, his bottom jiggling in the tight chinos he wore. She looked back at the shelf and added a jar of the organic heather honey to her trolley. She wondered if he was on the electoral roll or if she could snag his address from the restaurant. She pushed the trolley to the drinks section.

      When she got home she squeezed half a lemon into a cup, added a spoonful of honey and a generous measure of whisky and topped it up with hot water. She sipped it if front of the computer while she performed internet searches on Shirley Burbridge and Federico. There was nothing new about Shirley or Edward but the time served a useful purpose in refreshing her memory.

      Federico was more of a problem She didn’t know his last name and was stuck searching for ‘Federico,’ ‘Laverstone’ and ‘Corleone’s’. It gave her the address of the restaurant, which would have been helpful had she not been there a dozen times and the telephone number but there was no associated website. It would show her a map, print her directions to the restaurant from Timbuktu if she wanted them but wouldn’t tell her who worked there.

      She glanced at her watch. It was only just after four and the restaurant didn’t open until six. She picked up the phone and rang them, expecting to speak to Mr. Corleone and was surprised by the flat, English accent of the man who took the call.

      “Corleone’s.”

      “Hello. May I speak to the staff manager, please? This is the Inland Revenue PAYE office in Peterborough.”

      “Hold on, love, I’ll fetch him.”

      There were some clunks and hissing and an Italian voice came on the line. “This is-a Corleone’s. Luigi speaking.”

      Michelle frowned. “You’re the same person I was just speaking to, only putting on a terrible accent.”

      “No no. This is-a Luigi. How can I be helping you?”

      “I’m reviewing your tax returns and there’s a stain of what looks to be tomato sauce on the sheet. With regard to your list of employees, I can see the first name but not the surname or the address.”

      “Oh. Okay.”

      “So my question is this. What is the family name of your waiter Frederico?”

      “Frederico? You mean Federico?”

      “Er…I suppose so. The ink’s run so I can’t tell.”

      “Poverelli. Federico Poverelli. Fourteen Bank Street, Laverstone.”

      “Marvelous, thank you.” Michelle put the phone down, a smile on her face. A lot could be done with a word or two in the right ear, spoken by, say, the long-dead uncle of a council official’s wife. Mrs. Poverelli could find herself suddenly deported leaving Federico alone and in need of consolation.

      The back door opened and Graham walked in. “Shell?”

      Michelle closed the tab on her browser with the restaurant search and went into the kitchen. “What are you doing here? I don’t need you until eight o’clock.”

      “I got the afternoon off. I wondered if we could have dinner or something.” He put a cardboard box on the counter top. “I bought some fresh